


Home

by Comedia



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: M/M, and yes everyone survives because I just can't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 15:48:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/623838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Comedia/pseuds/Comedia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin and Bilbo are both homesick. Despite wanting nothing more than to be by each-other's side, Bilbo returns to The Shire and Thorin stays in Erebor as King under the Mountain. From that moment on, Bilbo's life is ordinary and peaceful, full of gardening and good food, until the day a letter from far away shows up on his doorstep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

Bilbo has always enjoyed reading; in fact, it is one of his favorite pastimes. Sitting outside of his hobbit-hole, puffing Old Toby and opening up a new book of adventures… there’s nothing quite like it. But there came a time in Bilbo’s life when books of that nature didn’t seem as interesting anymore. Few stories could surprise him, as the adventures being told were mundane when compared to his own. He ended up reading nothing but factual books, books about gardening and delicious recipes, until the first letter arrived.

It wasn’t like any other letter he had received. The paper was of a different quality than the one used in The Shire, and the writing was in black, thick ink. However, what really caught his eye was the blue seal, which carried a symbol he had seen many times before.

Not since he came eye to eye with Smaug had he been so breathless, and he waited until dark before breaking the seal and opening the envelope.

Thorin was no poet, nor was he a man prone to sweet and tender words. His writing was formal and efficiently described the life as King under the Mountain. He wrote of the others and the life they lead now; he wrote of the slow process of bringing Erebor back to what it once was. But most of all he wrote of loss, and the pain of missing what were once by his side.

Bilbo had never wished to leave the King, but The Shire called to him as the Mountain called to Thorin. They were both homesick men, and no matter how much it pained them there was no choice but to part. He had thought of himself as someone easily forgotten, but Thorin’s letter had proved that to be wrong.

He re-read the words over and over, until there was nothing but embers resting in his fireplace and the hour was much too late for any sensible hobbit to be awake. And then he wrote back. It was an uncertain and vague letter he wrote, yet eager in that he wanted to send a quick response.

Bilbo would spend most days working in his garden, laughing at the pub or experimenting in the kitchen, but it all paled compared to the happiness of seeing a new letter waiting for him.

When writing back he’d often stop in the middle of a sentence, thinking about how he was describing a very commonplace life to a King. It felt absurd, that someone like Thorin would find his letters to be amusing or interesting. With such a long time since they last met the past seemed more like a dream for each passing day. Dragons and wargs and spiders and treasures; if it wasn't for the ring lying safely in the pocket of his vest he would doubt any of it happened at all.

But despite Bilbo's existence being so ordinary Thorin would always write back asking for more. The dwarven King wanted to hear every story; how the plants were coming along in the garden; what the fireworks had been like during Gandalf's latest visit; if the new pipe weed was as good as the old one. It was all silly things, but as long as Thorin kept asking, Bilbo would keep telling his stories.

He imagined Thorin reading them - perhaps alone in his study - and in these dreams Thorin would be smiling slightly as all the mentions of food and Bag End would bring him memories of Bilbo and their time together.

They were living in such different worlds, yet the years passed them by and they loyally stayed in contact, exchanging stories about dwarven politics with recipes for scones. It was an excruciating existence, with weeks or even months passing between each letter.

Bilbo would sometimes sit by his fireplace at night, blowing rings of smoke in the dark while hearing a melody from long ago. Once a dwarven Prince had stood where Bilbo’s chair was now; he’d been handsome and proud and unforgiving in his quest. His song echoed to this day, becoming one with the burst of the fire.

Thorin was not a particularly romantic, nor sentimental, person. He had a love for the dramatic - it was even in the way he carried himself - but he was not one to write of love or longing. Despite that Bilbo could sense devotion in his words, even when they were simply describing the planning of a new mineshaft.

But sometimes that wasn't enough. Sometimes he wanted to ask about marriage and if Thorin had someone special in mind. To think that a hobbit, a hobbit that couldn't even stay by the King's side, would hold his love after all this time felt like a joke. At times like that the memory of their goodbye would come to him, a memory so overwhelming it always left him breathless.

They had been in a chamber of their own - a chamber they would have shared had he stayed in Erebor - and Bilbo had asked the same questions then. While he might've been by Thorin's side and shared his bed ever since the Battle of the Five Armies, there was no need to promise Bilbo faithfulness. A king needed a queen; surely Thorin knew of someone who would be suitable for marriage once Bilbo was gone?

Thorin hadn’t exactly glared, nor had he looked happy at Bilbo’s words. He’d laid his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, holding on a little too tight, and met the halfling’s eyes.

“Would you have chosen not to forgive me for my actions at the gate, I wouldn’t have gone looking for someone to take your place. Neither would I have done so had you died in battle.” At that Thorin had embraced him, all his warmth and devotion enveloping the hobbit completely. “Bilbo Baggins of The Shire, you are not leaving me with harsh words, nor are you leaving without giving me the chance of saying goodbye. You are simply going home. There are no reasons for me to feel for you any less in the future than what I do right now.”

Neither before, nor after, had the dwarven King attempted to speak of his feelings in such a way. He had held Bilbo for a long time, and while the hobbit had been more honest in his sorrow and wept openly, there was no doubt Thorin had shed tears as well.

Bilbo could still remember the touch of those rough hands; still remember how it felt to rest in Thorin’s arms; and how kissing those determined lips would make him forget about things like homesickness and dragons and war.

It was during an exceptionally long wait for a reply that Bilbo's life changed in a most surprising way. He was just preparing a pot of tea when there was a knocking on the door, a knocking so demanding that it couldn't possibly be a hobbit.

Occasionally he’d have visitors from far away. There’d be Gandalf stopping by from time to time, and a few elves curious to see how he lived. He’d even been visited by some of his dwarven friends, and they’d always walk through the door as if his home was an extension of their own. Whoever was at the door this time, they couldn’t have been here before as Bilbo didn’t recognize the knocking, and by the time he reached to open it he felt both uncertain and curious.

This time Thorin greeted Bilbo with a smile as the door was opened, rather than a frown like he had on their first meeting. “It seems I did not need a mark to find my way this time.”

During their adventure he’d always looked the part of a Prince, a man who – despite his height – never looked up to anyone. Always in his furs and armor, and with a determination in his step. But there had been something missing, he was a man of eternal struggle and it was easy to see in his appearance.

Now he looked like a King; wearing the clothes of someone with a home instead of someone always on the move, and his hair braided with precision and care. And despite age starting to show in grey hair and wrinkles alike - with scars marking his skin - there was a sense of peace to him that hadn’t been there before. Yet, while changed, there was so much about him that remained the same; the steely blue eyes, his voice and his warmth.

Bilbo, while being more sentimental than dwarves, didn’t consider himself to be a very impulsive person. However, he couldn’t stop himself from leaping forward to embrace Thorin. Wrapped in those arms once again, he was at a loss for words. But perhaps, at a time like this, there was no need to speak.

Reaching up he held one hand against Thorin’s chest, lightly grasping the fabric there. He could feel a heartbeat underneath his palm and leaned forward, resting his head there as well. Breathing in there was the scent of grass and smoke, but also a heavy musk that could be compared to nothing else.

They stayed in each-other’s arms for a long time, until Bilbo realized that he was a host and had been doing a very poor job this far. Stepping away he met Thorin’s eyes again, and was lost for a moment before regaining his composure and being able to speak properly.

“I was just making tea. It’s probably terribly strong by now, but I thought you might like something hot to drink?”

Thorin simply nodded in response, and Bilbo set off into the kitchen like he was twenty years younger and nervous like a rabbit. Reaching the teapot he realized that he had left Thorin in the hallway without properly letting him in, or telling him where to go for tea. At that he instantly turned and rushed back to the door, where Thorin was still standing, now looking clearly amused.

“Please come in, make yourself at home. I lit a fire not long ago; it should be nice and warm by now.”

Once again Thorin replied with a gentle nod, and once again Bilbo went to the kitchen. This time he tried to keep his dignity though, and walked much slower.

Pouring a cup for each of them he went to the fireplace, and found Thorin sitting by it, staring into the flames as if he was watching a place far away.  

Now that they were together and not simply exchanging letters, Bilbo found himself unsure of what was appropriate to say. "Did you come all this way on your own? And what of Erebor?"

At that Thorin turned from the fire, not with a smile but with warmth in his eyes. “Erebor is in good hands, and my men are at an inn nearby. I did not see the need for them to bother you as well.”

“Bother?” Bilbo could do nothing but stare at him. He set the teacups down on a table nearby and walked up to the dwarf. “Thorin Oakenshield, you may be many things, but a bother is not one of them.”

After that there was only silence. Although having already spoken it’s like he can’t accept that this is real, that Thorin has actually come here after all this time. He’s trying to think of something to say, because, ironically enough, he’s the talkative and emotional one among the two. It ends poorly though, with him stammering nonsense and Thorin looking at him with an expression both amused and perhaps a little frustrated.

Then his speech is put to an abrupt end as Thorin grabs his wrist and pulls him into his lap, securing his arms around Bilbo’s waist and holding him close.

Bilbo can feel hot breath against his neck as well as the tingle of Thorin’s beard, and then the soft pressing of lips. Taking a deep breath he leans back a little, and then moves his hands, letting them rest on top of Thorin’s.

Thorin leans forward, resting his chin on Bilbo’s shoulder and taking Bilbo’s hands in his own, tightening the embrace a little. His voice is as dark, dark like the singing of a night long ago. “It's been too long, my burglar.”

Bilbo’s hit by a surprising realization then, that he has been homesick since the very day he returned to The Shire. Home is no longer in a certain place or within certain walls, but in these arms; in this warmth; in Thorin.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I write short things on [tumblr](http://comediakaidanovsky.tumblr.com/) as well (but mostly I just cry about fictional characters).


End file.
